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Author's Chapter Notes:
As always to my good friend and trusty beta, eman
Chapter Three – There’s a Long, Long Trail Awinding


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“Oh, no you don’t. You don’t just get to sit there with that smirk on your face, being all … all … smirky. This is not funny, Spike.”

The vampire chuckled, watching the annoyed Slayer with more than a little amusement. “Better lower your voice there, Slayer, unless you want the whole wagon train to know our business.

The wagon they were in was small; filled to the brim with barrels and wooden crates. The only hint of comfort came in the form of a feather filled mattress. The tick was slightly larger than what one would consider a twin bed, and shorter by nearly a foot. And comfort was a relative term. The canvas covering the tick was rough and stained, the sharp tips of feathers poked through here and there.

“Don’t tell me to lower my voice,” Buffy hissed at him in a whisper.

“Just sayin’ that it might not be the best for all our new friends to find out who we are … or more importantly, where we’ve come from.” Spike went back to investigating the contents the wagon, kicking at barrels, and attempting to pry the tops off crates. So far he’d found nothing that interested him to any great degree. “Time travel, see, that’s somethin’ that’s too easily confused with witchcraft to people from this time.”

“This time?” Buffy picked up a cast iron skillet from the top of a small keg on the floor, hefting it as if assessing its use as a weapon. “What in hell is this time, Spike?”

“Near as I can tell, from the dress, from this Prairie Schooner, hell, just from the feel of it? I’d say near about 1850’s or so.”

“This isn’t happening.” Buffy dropped the skillet onto the keg with a loud thud.

“Oh, it’s happenin’, Slayer, and you’d best get used to it.”

“I will not get used to it!” She turned towards him, her eyes filled with frustration. “I refuse. There’s got to be something we can do.”

Spike looked up from the keg he was opening. “I’m sure there is. And we’ll be workin’ on it, no doubt. But for right now, tonight, this is happening and you need to deal—”

“Oh, I’ll deal all right. I’ll deal by going out there and kicking some ass until I get some answers.”

The vampire grabbed her arm, spinning her around and away from the entrance of the small wagon.

“Are you crazy,” he hissed. Then he took a deep breath and shook his head. “Never mind; rhetorical question.” His grip on her tightened and he pulled her close to him. All humor had left his face, and his eyes held the seriousness of his words. “Look, you go out there and cause a ruckus and we’re gonna end up in worse shape than missin’ in action.”

The Slayer freed herself from his grasp, crossing her arms across her chest, her hands rubbing at spots where his fingers had dug into her skin. “Missing in action? Spike, perhaps you’re not grasping the gravity of this sitch. We’ve been, somehow, someway, tossed back in time to God only knows when—”

“Like I said, 1850’s, maybe the early 60’s.” Spike inserted quickly.

“Or where.” She snapped back.

“From the looks of things I’d say a wagon train. Oregon Trail, maybe Sante Fe.”

“Fine, Mr. History Channel Vampire Guy. Tell me this. Why the hell do these people think they know us? How come they think we’re this Elizabeth and Will—”

“I’d say that was ironically convenient, Slayer. Don’t go lookin’ a gift horse—”

“—and they think we’re married!” She shivered in revulsion.

Spike grimaced. “Yeah, well, that’s a tad concernin’, I’ll give you that.”

“A ‘tad concerning?’ You’ll give me that? That’s big of you. Spike, they know us. At least they think they do. We’ve been transported here by some evil force—”

“Now wait one second, Slayer. Why’s it every time somethin’ happens that doesn’t go your way, its all evil’s doin’? Could just be some run-of-the-mill hocus-pocus we got caught in the middle of.” He dipped his finger into a keg he’d just opened and then sucked the finger into his mouth. “Sugar.” He stated to no one in particular. “In fact,” he began again, on a role of indignation for evil’s sake. “What if this is some act of those higher powers you keep spouting off about. Could be. You know better than most that they don’t exactly get your permission before they start fucking with your life. Maybe we’ve been sent back to this time to, I don’t know,” he paused, seeming at loss of words, when a suddenly his face lit with smile. “To put right, what once went wrong!”

Buffy’s mouth fell open. “We’re lost in time and you’re giving me Quantum Leap quotes?”

“I’m just sayin—” Spike shrugged.

“Spike, I don’t care if Mother Theresa sent us here. I want out. Now. I am Buffy Summers and I live in Sunnydale, California, not…” She gestured wildly about the interior of the wagon, “the Ponderosa. And, most importantly, I am not – do you hear me? Not. Your. Wife.”

“Bride,” the vampire stated with a curt nod of his head.

“Oh, don’t even go there—” Buffy narrowed her eyes at him.

“We’re newlyweds.” His lips birthed a small, satisfied smile.

“Spike, I’m warning you.” The Slayer’s tone lowered, her lips thinning into a harsh line.

“On our honeymoon.” The tongue made its debut, running suggestively along his upper teeth, his smile growing along with the Slayer’s annoyance.

Buffy’s response was a growl—a low, ominous sound eminating deep within her chest.

His eyes glittered and he rushed headlong into the hurricane of her anger. “Headed out West to start our new life as Mister and Missus—“

“Don’t!” she bellowed.

“Throckmorton.” He offered the name as if on a silver platter, then waited to watch the fall out.

Buffy, her jaw slack, stared at him. But instead of the tsunami of emotion that usually predicated one of their verbal skirmishes, she suddenly let out a whosh of breath from deep within her belly. Then, as if all energy had been drained from her body, her knees folded and she sunk down upon the feather mattress.

“You know,” The Slayer mumbled, her head drooping, her chin resting dejectedly on her chest. “I could handle the rest. I really could. But that? Being Mrs. Throckmorton? I … I just can’t.”

Spike chuckled, then dropped down to sit next to her, Indian style, his knee casually bumping hers. “Look at it this way, Slayer. At least you have a devilishly handsome husband to depend on.”

Buffy raised her head slowly, her eyes blank and humorless. “What are we going to do, Spike?”

His smirk softened to smile. “For right now, you’re gonna get some sleep. Dead on your feet, Slayer and you’ll function a lot better with a bit o’ kip.” He sighed taking a deep breath. He didn’t like being generous. It went against the grain. But the looking at the dejected girl slumped next to him, he couldn’t help himself. “I’ll wait til’ the campsite settles in and then do a bit of investigating. See if I can at least figure out exactly when and where we are. Gotta hope this rain holds out as well. Either that or figure out how to—“

Spike realized that he had, somehow, lost the Slayer’s attention. He craned his neck towards her, watching as her eyes focused intently on his chest. The silly bint wasn’t even listening to him!

Slowly Buffy looked up from her perusal of his chest, green eyes capturing blue. Spike’s mouth opened, his throat worked, as if he was about to speak to her, but stopped when she tentatively reach a hand out, her fingers lightly grazing his cheek. Buffy’s eyes continued to hold his, her brow wrinkling in concern, her head tilting slightly in confusion. Slowly her fingers trailed from his cheek to his throat and down to his chest, where she pressed her palm against the damp flannel fabric at his breast.

Spike frowned as he watched Buffy’s eyes follow the trail of her hand and once again she was staring at the center of his chest. He pulled back a bit, and looked down at where her hand lightly touched him. His patience strained, he growled, “Slayer, what the fuck is going on?”

“Spike?” Buffy asked, her eyes never straying from her splayed hand. “Why is your heart beating?”


To be Continued





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